


Untold Lies

by Darksilvercat



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Confrontation, M/M, PWP, top!Javert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksilvercat/pseuds/Darksilvercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a <a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=2462611#t3352467">kinkmeme</a> prompt - "I want Madeleine!era breakup sex -- the confrontation happens but between two men who have been in some semblance of a relationship for a while, and the tension gets unleashed in a bout of violent frantic last chance you bastard how did you do this to me lovemaking."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confrontation

Fantine is dead.

Fantine is dead and Valjean cannot stay. The hesitation of the court at Arras will not last, if he stays he risks arrest and he cannot give himself up now, not when the life of a child hangs in the balance.

He lays Fantine’s withered body down and pulls the sheet up to her chin. His hand trembles as he closes her eyes and he tells himself it’s because there’s a chill in the air. 

She looks more peaceful in death than she ever had in life, and he cannot help but press a kiss to her forehead and smooth the bedclothes down. He lingers too long, trying to create comfort she no longer needs; or perhaps he is just trying to put off what comes next.

He knows Javert will come after him, but with enough of a head start he can stay one step ahead. If he goes now, they may never see each other again.

Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t want to leave.

He’s not entirely certain he can look Javert in the eye, but he thinks he must. The illusion of Monsieur Madeleine had felt so real; he allowed himself to get caught up in a life that was never his and he has stolen something that was never meant for him. The spectre of the mayor is fading fast, and in its place is a former convict who has lied and deceived and abused the trust of an honest man.

It should never have come to this. Valjean cannot explain, he doesn’t understand what possessed him to keep Javert so close, too close for comfort, or at least it should have been. He took Javert into his confidence, into his home, and when it became too much to bear, when each look that passed between them grew loaded with meaning and every touch set fire to his skin, he told himself he was a different man, and took Javert into his bed. 

He hears footsteps and rises from the bed, putting some distance between himself and Fantine. It would not do to disturb her final rest with this.

“Valjean.”

Javert stands in the shadow of the doorway, consciously blocking the exit, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his rapier. It is clear from the readiness of his stance that he expects Valjean to put up a fight, and that hurts in a manner he is unprepared for, even more so than the blank expression on the inspector’s face and the coldness in his voice. It wounds something inside him to hear his true name spoken in such a tone from that mouth. He had hoped there might still be something there, some leftover shred of respect that might prompt Javert to approach him as a man rather than a common criminal.

But the sting of betrayal is too sharp, it seems, for Javert shows no sign of regard. Valjean has grown used to the way Javert snaps to attention at his approach, the way he bows his head as a mark of respect when they greet one another, the polite address and warm looks that turned so heated when they found themselves alone together. The inspector had always been so pliant then, so quick to yield and willing to please; there were times when Valjean could forget entirely what history lay between them and what falsehoods their relationship was built on, when he could almost convince himself that it would not matter if Javert knew the truth of his identity.

Of course that was mere fantasy, for there is nothing pliant in the man before him now. Javert stares him down without flinching, and Valjean feels, for the first time in years, the way the inspector can wield his authority like a weapon. It is something in the way he stands, or perhaps in the force of his gaze, that can cow even the hardest of criminals. Valjean is half-inclined to bow his own head in submission, but he resists the impulse and steps closer to Javert instead, speaking in a low voice.

“Not here,” he implores. “Let us not disturb the patients.” 

“Will you come quietly?”

“There is an empty room at the end of the hall. We can discuss it there.”

The inspector’s jaw tightens. “There is nothing to discuss.”

“I wish to explain-”

“Save that for the court.”

Javert steps into the room and the candlelight warms his features, casting them into greater relief. Valjean can see his face clearer now, can look into his eyes, and he realises he was mistaken before; Javert’s expression is not blank - no, it is contained - every inch of him under perfect control so that the hurt and the anger and the shame in his gaze will not be plain for all to see.

But Valjean has made a habit of studying Javert and he couldn’t miss it now.

“Javert, please, if you cared for me at all-” 

He knows it is a mistake as soon as the words leave him. Javert’s expression darkens terribly and he seizes Valjean by the collar, dragging him from the room and slamming him into the wall outside. 

“How dare you?” he growls. “There is nothing between us but deceit.”

“That’s not true,” Valjean implores. He cannot allow Javert to believe that of their relationship. If this is to be their final meeting he would have the inspector know the truth of the matter.

Javert snarls low in his throat and drags him away from the wall. He allows Javert to push down the hall and into the empty room he had mentioned, an office reserved for the doctor’s use in the day and kept vacant at night, and he does not flinch when the man locks the door behind them. 

“Then tell me what is true, Valjean,” Javert demands. “I find myself unable to separate the truth from your lies.”

Valjean swallows hard, unable to look at Javert. His fingers itch and he wishes for something to touch, something to hold onto so that he will not reach for the man before him.

“I never spoke a direct lie to you,” he says, but it feels more like a protest than a declaration. It’s true enough - he has avoided questions he could not answer and skirted details he could not give - but a lie of omission is still a lie, and Valjean has made many of those. 

Javert’s eyes flash fire and he advances on Valjean, holding the hilt of his rapier so tight in his fist that it doesn’t even rattle at his side. Valjean backs up warily until his hips collide with an empty desk and he can go no further. He grabs for it and curls his hands around the edge, heart beating painfully hard in his chest as Javert steps close enough that Valjean can feel the heat of his body. He makes the error of looking up, and once Javert has caught his gaze he cannot look away. This situation is all too familiar to them, even if the roles are reversed, and Valjean is responding in spite of himself, his trousers growing tight and his blood running hot as Javert leans in.

“Every word out of your mouth was a lie,” he says.

“No,” Valjean objects.

Javert takes a fistful of Valjean’s shirt and presses him back against the desk.

“It must have been,” he says, and there’s a hint of urgency in his tone now, he’s pleading with Valjean, as if he wants to be right, to prove that what happened between them meant nothing. It’s as though he is standing on the razor’s edge, waiting for the facade to break and free them both from this fantasy. 

Valjean cannot give Javert what he wants; he is not Monsieur Madeleine and he is not 24601 either, but how can he explain that to the inspector? This man who has always remained unflinching in his duty; who was so hesitant to cross the threshold of Valjean’s home, much less his bedchamber; who counselled Valjean in matters of public interest and trusted him in matters of a more personal nature, only to discover that the man he had come to hold in such high esteem was but an imagining of a former convict - how could he possibly trust Valjean now?

Still, he is unable to contain himself. “What passed between us was no lie,” he declares, and Javert pushes harder still against him, until he finds himself flat on the surface of the desk. 

The hand that was wrapped in his shirt is suddenly about his throat, but it is not anger he sees in Javert’s face. There is hurt in the furrow of his brow, shame in the angle of his head, and still in the parting of his lips Valjean can read desire. It is a deeper instinct that is not so easily denied, though the way Javert’s fingers flex against his throat suggests he is trying.

“I thought you a different man,” Javert says, his voice low and dark. “Had I known who you really were....”

His grip tightens momentarily and Valjean struggles instinctively, shadows of Toulon rearing in his mind. Javert finally releases the hilt of his rapier in order to pin one of Valjean’s wrists, and the movement brings their bodies flush together so that neither can deny what this is doing to them, nor doubt the other’s sincerity.

A moment passes, infinite in length, where they both hesitate. Valjean is unwilling to fight Javert, and Javert, he suspects, is fighting an internal battle with himself.

Then it is gone, the decision reached, and Javert yanks Valjean up from the desk, crushing their mouths together with force enough to bruise.

It is a kiss unlike any that have gone before. They have shared many kisses in their months together, hesitant in the beginning, then surer and sincere when they grew more certain of each other. Some might even have been called tender if there were anyone to witness them who would use such words. 

This kiss is wholly different, as if they are at the commencement of a battle that neither can win. Yet Valjean reacts as he always has, his hands seeking purchase on Javert’s sides, pulling him closer, pressing their bodies together until he could swear he feels Javert’s heartbeat through his uniform.

It feels far better than it should, but Javert does not allow the embrace for long before he breaks the kiss and pushes Valjean back against the desk. His hands return to his rapier and Valjean stills, though it is not fear so much as it is a will not to provoke the inspector that stays his movements. 

“I would never have allowed you to touch me,” Javert growls as he unfastens his belt and casts the weapon aside. 

“I would never have accepted an invite to your home, much less your bed,” he continues as he loosens the ties of Valjean’s trousers. 

“I was wrong to place my trust in you,” he declares as he pushes Valjean’s shirt above his head and lets it fall to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Valjean chokes out, the words tripping across his tongue, but Javert either does not hear them or does not want to hear. He grabs Valjean’s hips and turns him around, drags Valjean’s trousers down to his knees, then seizes his hands and plants them firmly on the desk, the motion bringing his chin to Valjean’s shoulder, his lips to Valjean’s ear.

“You lied to me,” he murmurs, and raises a hand to trace the scars on Valjean’s back. The touch is in stark contrast to everything else that has passed between them tonight, light and almost gentle; it could almost have been affectionate if it were not such a mockery of the first time he touched Madeleine’s scars, curious and uncertain in the privacy of Valjean’s bedchamber.

It makes Valjean’s cock harden all the same.

“You never asked,” Valjean says, softly.

Javert pauses for a moment, letting his forehead rest between Valjean’s shoulders, his hair tickling the nape of Valjean’s neck. “And if I had?”

Valjean bows his head. “I would have told you I had a difficult youth. It would not have been untrue.”

He feels a puff of air against his back, almost as though Javert had laughed. But the inspector makes no sound, he simply nods his head, then lifts it and returns his chin to Valjean’s shoulder.

“Nor would it have been the whole truth,” he says, and bites a bruise into Valjean’s shoulder.

Valjean does not cry out in pain, but he grunts softly, even as he tips his head to the side and bares his neck to Javert. He is a changed man, a reformed sinner, and he does not deserve to go to jail. But he thinks maybe he deserves this. Whatever Javert wants from him, he is willing to give. If the life he has worked so hard to build is shattering to pieces then he will hold onto this part of it as long as he can, even if the jagged edges are piercing him, wounding him as surely as the blade Javert has tossed aside. 

Javert leaves a trail of bites from Valjean’s shoulder to his neck. The hand on Valjean’s back falls between their bodies and Valjean can feel him fumbling with the fastenings of his uniform. He widens his stance slightly and puts more weight on his hands, dropping his head and relaxing his shoulders, silently consenting to whatever Javert intends.

“Don’t do that,” Javert says. “Don’t pretend this is something you would give to me.” His hand is too tight around Valjean’s hip, the other slides roughly between them, calloused fingers dipping into the crack of Valjean’s ass and pressing against him, pressing _inside_ him. 

Valjean grits his teeth and rocks back into the touch. “What if this is something I want?” he asks.

“This is not for you,” Javert replies.

Valjean hears him spit into his palm and run that hand across his cock, feels the blunt head of it pressed against him, and then it breaches him and he cannot contain a shout of mingled shock and pain. He has never allowed this before, they have never come together in this way, and he feels a sharp pang of regret that this is the only time he will get to feel Javert inside him. This should have been something sweet and intimate, a sign of the trust and respect between them, not rough and coarse and born of anger and betrayal.

Nevertheless, Valjean was not lying when he said he wanted it, and if this is the way it must happen, he has only himself to blame.

Javert is not gentle or kind when he kicks Valjean’s legs further apart and thrusts his hips forward, burying himself within Valjean. But he withdraws too slowly and waits too long to move again, and Valjean cannot bear it, he reaches behind himself and seizes Javert’s hand, tugs the inspector forward and arches back, splitting himself open once again. Javert snarls and twists his hand free, sets Valjean’s back upon the desk and pins it there with his own.

“Don’t touch me,” he orders. “If you move again, I will leave you like this.”

“Am I not under arrest?” Valjean asks. Javert plants his other hand between Valjean’s shoulders and forces him to bend flat against the desk. 

“Don’t speak either,” he says, and punctuates the command with a sharp thrust of his hips. The changed angle causes him to stir something inside Valjean that sends a jolt of pleasure through his entire body and prompts a most undignified sound. He tries to press back and recapture the sensation, but he dares not move too far. Javert resettles his hands upon Valjean’s hips and thrusts again, and Valjean moans unashamedly. There is still pain where Javert’s cock rends him open and his own arousal is trapped uncomfortably beneath the edge of the desk, which prints bruises upon his hips, while the rough fabric of Javert’s uniform chafes his back and thighs, and yet Valjean has never known a pleasure like it.

“Look at you,” Javert says as he strikes up a punishing rhythm. “Had I known you were so eager to be taken I might have done so months ago.”

Valjean thinks the words are meant to sound cruel, but there’s a note of wonder in Javert’s voice that is not so well hidden as he might have wished, and Valjean must bite his lip to keep from responding to it. He curls his fingers into the surface of the desk and pushes his cheek against the smooth wood, fighting to ground himself in something solid. In the next moment Javert has reached forward and pinned Valjean’s hands beneath his own. The gesture anchors him, and he wonders if Javert is doing it for Valjean’s benefit or his own.

The new position and the motion of their bodies causes Javert’s uniform shirt to ride up against Valjean’s back, and he desperately wishes he had made an effort to remove more of Javert’s clothing. He has grown rather fond of the inspector’s body, of broad shoulders and solid muscle, coiled and carefully controlled power. Valjean has always had to temper his own strength, afraid of what he might do if he forgets himself, but that was never the case with Javert. He has matched Valjean at every turn in their relationship; they are of a similar intellectual level and their differing views on morality and the law have been the source of many a stimulating debate; neither of them are particularly given to humour, but each has succeeded in drawing laughter from the other; and when he took Javert into his bed he found that he had been matched there in an entirely different way. When Valjean pushed too hard Javert kept his ground; and if he held on too tightly the inspector would break his grip, or rake his back with blunt nails, or turn a kiss into a bite; and so Valjean had allowed himself to let go, because he trusted that Javert would hold him together.

Valjean’s arms are trembling with the effort of holding himself steady, and they are so tightly pressed together that he knows Javert will be able to feel the tremors also. The knowledge sends a shiver through him and he clenches involuntarily. Above him Javert makes a choked sound that Valjean thinks he did not mean to let out, and drops his forehead against Valjean’s back.

“Valjean,” Javert breathes, “I don’t...this is not...” His fingers sink between Valjean’s own until he is not so much pinning Valjean’s hands as he is holding them with a grip like iron. His breath is hot against Valjean’s neck and he presses an open-mouthed kiss to Valjean’s shoulder. “Why have you done this to me?” he gasps.

Valjean does not know how to answer, is not even sure if he’s allowed to answer, but he squeezes Javert’s hand and pushes back against the inspector and wishes it could be enough. Their skin is growing damp with sweat, their breath comes short and heavy from exertion, and though Javert tries, he cannot contain every sound he makes. Valjean does not even make the attempt - he cannot speak and he cannot move, but he will not be silent. If Javert will not hear his words then he will hear this and he will know, he cannot deny that Valjean wanted him, that he was sincere in this if nothing else.

Javert’s control is slipping, his movements growing ragged. His thrusts are rougher and when he uses his knee to push Valjean’s legs even further apart he sinks just a little deeper. He is close to the edge, and Valjean is too, achingly hard and desperate for release. He dares not move to touch himself, nor does he expect any mercy from Javert, so when the inspector lifts his right hand, still twined around Valjean’s own, and brings it to Valjean’s cock it is as much the shock of the gesture as it is the contact that makes him gasp and shudder in relief.

He knows he will not last like this, trapped between two points of excruciating pleasure. Javert moves their joined hands in a studied counterpoint to the near frenzied pace of his thrusts, separate actions that stoke the same fire in Valjean’s blood. The inspector’s teeth graze Valjean’s throat and he knows there will be marks upon his skin long after they have parted to remind him of this night. Everything about this coupling, every touch, it is all Javert laying claim to Valjean - not Madeleine, not this time. 

For all that Javert may deny it, this is the most honest they have ever been together. 

It is a bitter comfort, but the knowledge that Javert sought this even knowing his true identity is enough to tip Valjean over the edge. He finds himself falling, his climax overtaking his every sense until all that remains is the white hot rush of ecstasy and a brutal ache in his chest as the air leaves his lungs on a shout of Javert’s name. The inspector’s hand wrapped around his own is his only anchor to the world, and Valjean holds on as though to let go would be to lose himself forever.

Javert follows immediately behind, muffling his cry in Valjean’s shoulder, his breath coming short and fast. Valjean is unprepared for the sensation, slick and wet inside him, and he wonders at how depraved he must be to find such a thrill in the realisation of what it means. It is not something he ever expected he might enjoy, but his cock twitches in Javert’s hand and he clenches around the inspector as if he could keep him there.

In the silence that follows they stand pressed together, soaked in sweat and struggling to regain control of their limbs, as Valjean collects the tattered remnants of his thoughts. He cannot bring himself to regret this, but now that it is done he knows his next act will be harder on both of them. 

Nothing has changed. He has wronged Javert, but he cannot make amends, he cannot stay and allow himself to be imprisoned. There is a child, and there is a promise to a dead woman. If Valjean has nothing else he has his honour; he must see this task done.

He is readying himself for an argument, perhaps even a fight, when Javert finally releases his hands and slowly withdraws. Valjean stands frozen as Javert carefully replaces his trousers and fastens them before attending to his own. When he hears the rattle of the rapier being lifted from the stone floor he turns, but instead of cold steel he finds his own shirt thrust toward him. Javert’s face is unreadable now, his features returned to a carefully schooled blankness, though there is a storm in his gaze that Valjean can barely begin to unravel. 

He accepts his shirt and pulls it back over his head; it sticks to the rapidly cooling sweat on his back. His trousers are damp with come and he can feel it still inside him, trickling down the inside of his thigh, the sensation both uncomfortable and shockingly arousing. He ignores it as best he can while he fastens them and tucks his shirt neatly into his waistband, and once he is fully clothed he feels a little more certain of himself. Javert straightens his uniform and directs his attention to buckling his belt back into place, and Valjean takes the action as his cue.

“I will not come with you,” he begins. His voice sounds strangely broken even to his own ears. 

Javert’s fingers slip on the buckle of his belt and his head snaps up.

“You don’t have a choice,” he says. 

“There is a child,” Valjean says. “Fantine’s daughter. Now that she has passed there is no-one to see to her wellbeing. I must intercede.”

“That is your excuse?” Javert demands. He looks more or less put together now, but his voice is still ragged and hoarse. “You think I would believe that your chief concern is the welfare of a child?”

“It is the truth,” Valjean asserts. Javert’s eyes narrow. They are back where they began.

“I will not be made a fool again.”

“No,” Valjean agrees. “I don’t expect you will ever believe another word I say, but I will say it all the same.”

This time he is able to anticipate what Javert will do, and when the inspector reaches for his blade Valjean catches his wrists. Before Javert has a chance to react, Valjean steps closer, claiming his mouth in one final, desperate kiss. 

He draws back before the inspector can pull him closer or push him away. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, and “it was never a lie between us.”

Javert falters for a fraction of a moment, and Valjean seizes his opportunity with both hands. He has crossed the room in an instant and pushed open the shutters on the window. He allows himself another instant to look back at Javert, to seize and hold the image of the inspector in his mind, before he jumps from the building and into the river below.

The icy water fills his nose and mouth and stings his eyes, but it is nothing compared to the raw hurt in his heart.


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a postscript to the previous chapter that ran thusly:
> 
> "End. ~~except not really because of course they'll meet again and Javert will come to forgive Valjean and they'll probably have frantic sweaty reunion sex at the barricade and obviously circumstances will conspire to prevent Javert from killing himself afterward and I mean eventually they'll live happily ever after, it's just going to take them years to reach that point~~ "
> 
> This is the expanded version of that postscript.

"How have you come to be here?" Valjean breathes. He can scarcely believe his eyes. Javert is unchanged but for the sprinkling of gray in his hair and beard, and Valjean itches to reach out and touch, to trace the lines of muscles he has held in his memory for all these years. Javert’s right temple is sticky with blood that has gotten into his hair and trickled down to his jaw. Valjean cannot stop himself from taking the inspector's chin in his hand and turning his head to inspect the wound. 

Javert jerks free of Valjean's grip, and raises his bound hands between them.

"Don't," he says, softly. He backs away from Valjean, only stopping when his shoulder connects with the wall. Valjean stares as Javert leans heavily against the stone, turning his face into it as though seeking its coolness, despite the chill in the air.

Valjean pulls out the knife they handed him and Javert eyes it with wary apprehension. It sits poorly with Valjean that the inspector does not even flinch. He makes no move to defend himself as Valjean approaches.

"Do it fast."

His words stop Valjean cold. Javert continues to watch him, chin raised defiantly, even as he leans most of his weight into the wall. Valjean reads pain and exhaustion in the inspector's gaze and if he thought it had hurt to leave Javert in that hospital, it is nothing compared to the way his heart seizes when he realises that not only does Javert expect to die by his hand, he is not even going to resist.

There is a fleeting moment where Valjean remains suspended in disbelief, unable to comprehend what he sees in Javert's eyes, but then the inspector's gaze flicks back to the knife and Valjean is suddenly free to move again.

He closes the distance between them in a flash, pressing Javert's shoulder until his back is flush to the wall and Valjean stands mere inches away. This close he cannot miss the way Javert's breath catches in his throat as Valjean grabs his bound wrists and raises them up.

"Don't be ridiculous," he chides, though it is difficult to speak around the tightness in his throat. "I will not harm you."

"This is your one chance to be rid of me," Javert argues. "Kill me and you will never have to look over your shoulder again, you will be free to live your life."

"Even if that were true, I could not," Valjean says. He slides the knife carefully between the rope that binds Javert's wrists and cuts him free. 

Javert stares at the rope as it falls to the ground between them, then back up at Valjean. “I don’t understand.”

Valjean sheathes the knife, but he doesn’t step away. He raises his hand to Javert’s temple instead, gently examining the wound there. “I have hurt you enough for one lifetime,” he says, softly. 

He reaches into his pocket and extracts a handkerchief to wipe the worst of the blood from Javert’s face, but Javert captures his hand before he can complete the motion. He searches Valjean’s gaze like he might unlock the answers to all his questions if he only looks hard enough.

“You would let me go free?”

“What choice do I have?”

Valjean steps back, giving Javert room to pass. He pulls the pistol from his belt and fires a single shot into a wooden door frame on Javert’s left. 

“Go,” he urges, but Javert remains in place, staring at Valjean as though he is speaking in tongues.

“You should kill me,” he says. 

“I will not,” Valjean growls. “You are not my enemy.”

“Then what am I?” Javert asks, his voice rising. He steps towards Valjean. “What was I to you?”

Valjean hesitates. There are so many answers he could give - friend, colleague, lover; his biggest mistake and his most treasured memory - but none of them seem to fit. Javert is so much more than that, he is the one constant in Valjean’s life, but their relationship is not one he has ever successfully defined, not during their time in Montreuil and not even in the years he has thought about it since.

Javert, it seems, has little patience for his deliberations. “Answer me!” he demands. “What am I to you, Valjean, who are you to me?” He fists his hands in Valjean’s jacket in a manner so reminiscent of their last time together that for a moment Valjean is back there, and the spark that always simmers between them ignites into flame at the memory, consuming his thoughts and burning in his blood. 

“I never forgot,” Javert continues, desperation edging into his tone. “I tried, I told myself it was a mistake, a perversion, a lie, but still I lie awake at night and think of you. I cannot rid myself of you, so you must rid yourself of me, or we will never be at peace-”

Hearing Javert confess these feelings causes something to snap in Valjean, and his body moves without his permission. His hands rise to Javert’s face, his feet close what little space remains between them, and he seals his mouth over Javert’s before he has fully registered the intent to do so. Javert makes a stunned noise, but his hands tighten in Valjean’s jacket and he leans into the kiss, returning it with equal fervour. 

Valjean shoves Javert back against the wall, his knee sliding between Javert’s legs, and Javert grabs for his hips to hold him in place.

“I don’t want peace,” Valjean breathes against Javert’s lips. “I want you. I have only ever wanted you.”

“Liar,” Javert replies, but the word lacks rancour, and if Javert still feels resentment it is not enough to prevent him from chasing Valjean’s mouth with his own and reclaiming the kiss.

“Never,” Valjean gasps between kisses. “Not to you, not in this. God, Javert-”

He fumbles clumsily with the inspector’s shirt, marvelling now as he couldn’t before at the sight of Javert out of uniform. He is not entirely sure he likes it, and perhaps Javert feels the same way, for he is quick to assist Valjean with the buttons. When the shirt is opened Valjean ducks his head to press kisses to Javert’s chest, still as warm and solid as he remembers, and drops to his knees to continue tracing a pathway down. His hands shake when he reaches for Javert’s trousers, but he is able to undo them with little difficulty and shove them down around Javert’s thighs. 

Time has done a disservice to his recollection of Javert’s cock, although just looking at it now is enough to trigger a fresh wave of memories. He is about to take it in his mouth when the inspector grabs his shoulder and hauls him back to his feet.

“Not...not like that,” Javert pants. “I want - God - I need to...”

Quick hands tug Valjean’s shirt loose from his trousers, and nimble fingers loosen buttons and ties until Valjean is in a similar state of undress to Javert. Then Javert’s hand is wrapped around them both, and Valjean muffles his groan against Javert’s shoulder. He braces one hand against the wall and curls the other around Javert’s neck, pressing desperate kisses to the side of his throat.

“Valjean,” Javert breathes. He hooks his ankle around Valjean’s, locking them together. “God, what have you done to me? I’ve wanted this, I’ve thought of you-”

“I thought of you too,” Valjean gasps. “Every day, Javert, I have thought of you and wished I could make amends for my mistakes. The last time we were together-”

“I did not believe you,” Javert says. He grips Valjean’s collar with his free hand and yanks him in for another kiss. “I do now,” he confesses as they part, and Valjean has to kiss him again for that. He presses closer, until they are joined from shoulder to knee and Javert’s hand is trapped between their stomachs. Valjean begins to move his hips, thrusting into the tight space between them, his cock sliding against Javert’s and making him groan. 

Javert seems content to speak no further, instead devoting all his attention to grinding his hips in counterpoint to Valjean’s movements and biting a fresh bruise into Valjean’s shoulder, renewing the claim he staked in the hospital at Montreuil. Valjean sweeps a hand down to grasp Javert’s hips for better leverage, and if he holds tight enough to bruise it’s only because he has a claim of his own to renew here.

It is hardly graceful, the frantic thrust of their hips and the greedy touch of their hands, the hungry kisses they share and share again, but it matters little. After so long apart, Valjean thinks he could come simply from being allowed to touch Javert. To have him like this, breathless and wanting and just as eager for Valjean as Valjean is for him, it is beyond good, it is a euphoria he thought he might never find again. They are older now, still strong perhaps, and certainly resilient, but Valjean had not thought himself to be as virile as he once was. But with Javert in his arms once more he feels like a youth in his first blush of adulthood, racing towards that peak of ecstasy. The rhythm they had developed is already breaking down, it has been too long since they came together like this, and they require little to achieve their mutual goal. For Valjean it is when Javert gasps out his name once more, for Javert, he thinks, it is the moment he buries his face in the inspector’s shoulder and bites down there to muffle his cry.

It is over in a matter of minutes. For a long moment they stand, twined together, sticky and shaking and unwilling to let go. Javert leans heavily against the wall, and Valjean suspects that it is only his own body pressed against the inspector that is holding him upright at all.

At length, Javert draws back slightly from Valjean. A silent huff of breath escapes him; Valjean could swear it is almost a laugh. 

“What are you doing here, Valjean?” he asks.

Valjean cannot contain his own startled laugh at the question.

“I came to rescue a boy,” he explains as he begins to set their clothing in order. Javert looks at him incredulously.

“A particular boy, or would any one of them suit your sainthood?”

Valjean buttons Javert’s shirt and tucks it back into his trousers. “A particular one. His name is Marius, and my daughter, Cosette, has fallen in love with him.”

“Cosette?” Javert repeats. “Fantine’s child?”

“A child no more,” Valjean confides. “I fear she has outgrown me.” He doesn’t know why he’s speaking as though they are old friends, but Javert is looking at him with a searching gaze, like he’s reassessing everything he thinks he knows about Valjean, and there is a strange kind of uncertainty in the air. Something has shifted between them and Valjean is not sure what it means. He never dared hope he might have a chance to regain what he lost with Javert, but he will not let this opportunity pass.

Javert shakes his head. “You baffle me,” he says. “You are a thief who broke his parole and deceived his way into wealth and power, and yet you rescue whores and children and dead men as though you think in doing so you can single-handedly alter the course of the world.”

“To show mercy should not be so drastic a change,” Valjean says, and for once Javert does not argue. Valjean finishes buttoning his jacket and bends to retrieve the pistol.

Javert sighs and rubs at the rope burn on his wrists. “I should arrest you,” he says, but it is more an observation than a statement. There is resignation in his eyes when he looks at Valjean. “It is not safe here.”

“I cannot leave yet,” Valjean replies.

Javert snorts. “Of course not. It would interfere with your mission of mercy.”

Valjean nods. “Well,” he says. “If I survive here...you will find me at Rue de l’Homme Arme No. 7.”

He doesn’t know if he’s inviting Javert to call on him or arrest him, and judging from the look on Javert’s face, the inspector is equally uncertain. Still, he nods. “No doubt our paths will cross again.”

He bends and picks up Valjean’s handkerchief, muddied now from being trodden into the ground, and presses it into Valjean’s hand. His touch lingers for a moment longer than is decent, before he ducks his head and steps past Valjean.

Valjean watches him leave, and tries not to read any meaning into the look Javert gives him before he turns the corner and departs.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written prose in a while and porn in even longer. Many many thanks to the OP of this delicious prompt for helping me to break my year long porn block!


End file.
